


Cut It Off

by Insazy



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Body Image, Gen, Graphic Description, Graphic Self-Harm, Issues, Self-Harm, it's not super graphic, okay it is, prompto really thinks he's fat, yeah - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-04 16:50:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10283558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Insazy/pseuds/Insazy
Summary: Prompto was good about not looking in the mirror. He would pass by it every day and never managed to glimpse himself in the mirror.Until today.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Heyo!!! I did this for the kink meme right here: Kink Meme
> 
> The prompt was for graphic self-harm and emotional hurt for Prompto. OP said I did a great job, so I am here to post it to my actual account!
> 
> Hope you all enjoy!

The first time is when he's twelve. It's only been a few months since Noctis said the fated 'heavy' that sealed Prompto's fate to running and salad-eating for the next forever. But he has been doing it. He gets up an hour before sunrise, changes into running gear, and runs until the sun peaks over the horizon. The first few times led to vomiting, so he stopped eating breakfast beforehand. Every time he steps outside ready to run, he feels the paranoia that comes with being a fat person trying to run in public. It's a mixture of shame, determination, shame, and the hot-sting of maybe tears.

But, Prompto's been trying. So hard. His salads are as calorie-less as possible while actually eating something. He has not missed a single day yet. Sure, some days he gets up and can't even look in the mirror for fear of seeing no progress, but he goes for his run still.

He's been doing great. Except. He looked in the mirror today--a day where he could feel his belly-fat hitting his knees, and his breath felt extra heavy. Looking into the mirror was like looking at the ugliness and terror he ran away from to enter the Crown City.

Prompto's stomach was large and rounded, with a sliver of stretch-marked skin peeking out under his sweatshirt because it wouldn't go down all the way. When he shifted his feet to get closer he felt his fat thighs rub together, reminding him of all the pants he had to get rid of because his thighs rubbed the cloth around the crotch down to patchy holes. Prompto's arms were flabby, and looked like sausages in his sleeves. 

A pressure around his eyes forced them up to check out his face. His glasses allowed a clear view of his visage. Filled cheeks which led down into a double-chin finally made him slide to the floor. Tears slipped from his eyes, and he covered them with his hands. Prompto couldn't believe it.

There was no progress.

Why? He has been doing everything right. He even gave up that camera upgrade he wanted in order to buy healthier food, because his parents only gave him a set amount of money every week. He hadn't been able to mention his healthier eating to them yet, so he hasn't been given enough to cover the cost.

How is he going to be Noctis' friend if he can't even lose a little weight? The prince would never want someone like him if he couldn't just be better.

Prompto knows Noctis deserves someone better. Someone who can actually stand side-by-side with him without shame. Who will eventually become someone to rely on. Prompto knows he isn't that; he will never be that. Prompto isn't even a someone.

Prompto scrubs his face with his wrist, and ends up rubbing his bracelet against his face. He stares at it. That's right. He isn't anyone. Is he even a person? He'd like to think so, but this thing hidden behind the soft bracelet marks him as some object. Something that shouldn't have feelings or thoughts. 

Maybe this is the time. He stands up and cradles his bracelet covered wrist to his chest, and then heads towards his side table. He doesn't know if it will even work, but according to the research he's done if he does it deep enough it will be fine. It'll scar but he doesn't mind scarring.

He digs into a drawer and pulls out a thin, small, knife. It's tiny compared to his pudgy fingers, and he has trouble getting his grip situated without accidentally cutting himself, but he manages. Prompto knows it's sharp. He spent hours sharpening it with the rock he stole from his mother's kitchen knives. But just to be safe, he drags to edge lightly across his thumb. The skin peels seemlessly apart, like a knife skirting the top of jello. There's no sting, just a small slice and a little prick of blood. Good.

Prompto sinks to the floor at his bedside and slips off his bracelet. the barcode contrasts sharply with his skin in the soft lamp light he has on in the early mornings. Picking up the knife, he presses it lightly against his skin, right at the top of the black lines.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.

Prompto pushes down and drags the knife across his skin. He let's out a whine of pain through his teeth, but he keeps dragging down. Blood wells up around the knife, droplets sliding down his wrist, across his palm, and slicking up his fingers. He reaches the end of the tattoo and stops.

A pile of skin is pressed against the knife; it's a clean, folded pile with only a little blood speckling it. Prompto looks where his barcode used to be and pauses. The lines are stark against the pale of his skin and the ruby red of his blood (He ignores the black specks in it. Pretends it's shreds of the tattoo.) He didn't cut deep enough.

Prompto pulls the knife back and places it back at the top of the tattoo. He takes another breath, clenches his teeth, and cuts down again. Prompto flinches this time and the knife jerks,dragging deeper and down in the middle of the barcode. He cries out, but manages to avoid yanking his hand back. He heaves through tears, and what suspiciously sounds like a sob echoes in his ears.

No, he shouldn't be crying. Prompto has been wanting to do this for months! Cutting out his barcode that designates him as property to the Empire will fix everything. He won't feel disgusted with himself every time he sees his bracelet out of the corner of his eye. He will be able to look into the mirror and see a person, not a killing unit. Maybe he will finally deserve to talk to Noctis. So no tears. This is a happy moment!

Prompto takes deep breathes until they even out and his tears stop falling. The knife is dug at an awkward angle, pointed down and ready to cut deeper into his arm. It's okay though. He can fix this. Prompto reclenches his teeth and twists the knife, twisting the blade so it faces up, and he cuts back out of his skin so he takes decent chunk of his skin out, right in the middle of his barcode. Astrals, that was painful. 

Blood his dripping steadily out of the gash he just made, but Prompto can't see any tattoo left over. So it does come out after all? He's so glad he is not just doing this for nothing.

Smiling, Prompto changes his grip on the little knife. It slips through his fingers (the blood has slickened them, but he equates it to his fat fingers unable to grasp anything carefully) and as he tries to catch it he slices the palm of his hand open. Blood starts sputtering out of his palm, and it starts to pool onto the floorboards. 

Fuck. Now he can't finish. But he started. He had started something he has been waiting on for months. Prompto smiles. He can just start again later.

\--------

It takes weeks for Prompto's palm to heal. He changes the bandages daily, and makes sure no infections take off. He continue to run and eat his salads every day, because now he really needs to look good for Noctis. He's going to be worth something as soon as his palm heals and he can grip the knife again. Once that barcode comes off, he will no longer have an proof that he was an object, a killing unit.

He's cleaning the gashes and slices along his barcode tattoo when he freezes. The running water in the sink is digging into the gash, and he can clearly see the bottom of it, where the knife shredded a little skin when he twisted it. Dark stripes lined the bottom of the wound, the barcode darkening the healing skin.

Prompto's hands slide into his hair, gripping the strands tight, lancing pain through his head, but he keeps them there. He can hear the faucet running in the background vaguely but Prompto just can't move to turn it off.

Off. The barcode won't come off. It will never come off. 

If cutting his own skin out didn't work, what would? Prompto gazes around the kitchen through blurry eyes. What would work? His eyes alight upon the stove.

 

 

Maybe burning.


End file.
